


Black flowers blossom

by uumuu



Series: Fortune [2]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dubiously Canonical Character, Hand Jobs, M/M, Post-Canon, Reunions, Second Age, Sensory Deprivation, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 01:08:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Centuries after the end of the First Age, Maglor receives a visitor from Valinor.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the Sensory Deprivation square in my second Season of Kink card (though the Sensory Deprivation prompt got kinda lost in the rest).
> 
> [Ivárë](http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Iv%C3%A1r%C3%AB) gets a single offhand mention as one of the "most magical" Elven singers.

“My Lord, my Lord!”

The youthful voice called excitedly, while fleet footsteps pattered up to where Maglor was squatting beside a lozenge-shaped flowerbed, tending to the dahlias, which had begun putting out tender green buds.

The nurturing warmth of late spring streamed down on him and on the flowers from a cloudless sky. The nestling-holes built into the wall encircling the garden were full of birds rearing their youngs, and hungry fledglings chirped loudly as their parents fed them. The bees travelled back and forth from the flowering rosemary bushes in one corner, contending nectar with the first butterflies.

Maglor looked up at the lad – one of the youngest inhabitants of the castle – from under the large hem of his straw hat.

“There's a visitor for you, my Lord.” 

“A visitor?”

“Yes,” the young man nodded assuredly, but hesitated before adding, “someone from the West, he claims. He's waiting in the courtyard.”

“The West,” Maglor echoed pensively. His former homeland now seemed to him an utterly separate world, with which no contact was possible. The visitor would be the first Elda he met in centuries. Apart from his old allies and the occasional human traveller, most of his visitors were Dwarves who lived in the Red Mountains. Puzzled, and a little alarmed, he took off his gloves and hopped to his feet. He dismissed the young man with a smile that passed for reassuring, and crossed the garden towards the castle. He stopped next to the gate, looking back for a moment to survey the results of his work. 

The garden looked like a scene from his memory come to life, with four large flowerbeds facing one another around a tall, slender fountain, sculptures along the walls, and an array of select bushes in carefully studied spots. Even Telufinwë would have been proud of it. _'He surely is'_ , Maglor murmured as a light breeze caressed his face and tickled his nostrils with the scent of sage and mint, which he had watered not too long before. He breathed the fragrance in deep and long, as if he had to breathe for two people, and ducked into the gate leading from the garden into the cobbled courtyard. 

The castle was quiet, apart from the muffled noises from the bakehouse in the building across from where Maglor was standing. Everybody else was out in the fields, working or enjoying a restful morning. A lone figure clad in a blue travelling coat stood next to the main gate. Maglor headed towards them and cleared his throat to attract their attention, determined to face whoever the Valar – as it seemed likely – had sent to him. When the visitor finally turned he gasped and froze.

The visitor flashed him a disarming smile and sauntered forward.

“Canafinwë,” he said merrily, grasping the brim of Maglor's hat and raising it from his head. 

The hat drew a semicircle in the air, and fell to the ground with nary a sound. Its trajectory seemed to give definite shape to the wave of nostalgia that swept over Maglor, hurtling him to the very heart of his fondest memories for an instant. Even the sound of his name on those smiling lips – a name which was rarely uttered anymore, and was itself a solemn relic of the past – had something wistfully beautiful to it and sent a frisson through his body. 

“Ivárë,” he said, his voice a little shaky with shock. 

The other elf smiled even wider, looking him over from head to foot, and back up with brazen delight.

Maglor for his part stared fixedly at his former mentor's face. “You haven't aged a day.” 

Ivárë still looked as he ever had: tall and lanky, blonde curls framing his long face messily with a smirk always lurking in the depths of his ice-blue eyes. Ivárë was the most gifted elven singer to reach Aman, as brilliant as he was elusive, as praised as he was eccentric. Months would pass without anybody knowing where he was, and only broken wisps of his singing heard by travellers proved that he did indeed still tread the Blessed Realms. Then he would come back, pop in on a grand feast or gathering, and smother any questions about his whereabouts or motives under melodies that could have enthralled soulless rock.

Fëanor had stalked him for almost a whole year, following him across half of Valinor, to convince him to become Maglor's tutor, and the quirky friendship which had ensued between them had given rise to much talk.

“Well? Shall I not receive a proper welcome from my best pupil?”

“Your only pupil,” Maglor quipped, relaxing. He made a low, heartfelt bow. Ivárë held his head and kissed the top of it, tarrying with his lips on his hair longer than a kiss would have warranted, but scarcely enough to fill a gap of centuries. 

“How did you find me?” Maglor asked as he straightened.

“Oh, it was easy enough. I boarded a ship bound for Númenor, sang for some distinguished people there and sailed on to Arda.” Maglor scoffed amusedly, shaking his head. “Well, finding you was something of a hassle indeed. Most people I asked replied that you were dead or lost. You, lost! – when I could still hear the echo of your voice from all over the sea! I tell you, I had some of the best fun of my life. Then I talked to one Elrond. He told me he had got wind you might have gone and moved East...and here I find you, close to the Eastern Sea, with your own castle and lands.”

“It is but a modest dwelling...and it is not mine alone.” 

“Red sandstone, is it? Seems appropriate.”

“Well, we are in the Red Mountains.”

“And to think Cuiviénen was so close to them. But you couldn't really see the red in the light of the stars. Your people live here too, then?”

“Some of them, yes. The Green Elves that fought with us at the end of the First Age have mostly left since, dispersing in the woods east of the mountains or in the valleys. A few visit from time to time, on occasions of great solemnity. My closest associates of Ñoldorin descent live here, others have moved to small villages or isolated farmsteads in the vicinity. Curufinwë's wife lives here, as do Ñillerámë, Rómelindë –”

“Rómelindë the grim.” 

“Ah yes. It is good to know the best tales made it safely back to Valinor. But I guess much of interest was left out,” Maglor jested, and after a pause added, “...my wife and Morifinwë's wife also live here.”

“ _Your_ wife?” 

“A political ally,” Maglor clarified with a small lopsided grin. “Do you wish to refresh yourself? Rest? Eat something?”

“Nonsense,” Ivárë replied with a slight frown, as if Maglor should have known better. “I wish to get re-acquainted with you, if you please.”

It made such perfect sense for Ivárë to cover the whole distance from Valinor to the Red Mountains solely for that purpose as if it were nothing, travelling only with a large staff and a bag so small it could hardly be termed baggage. It had been said, in Aman, that animals would lie down at his feet to be slain at an order from him, and fruit-trees would bend their branches to proffer him their bounties. Maglor knew well that Ivárë employed much more commonplace methods to keep himself alive during his journeys, but the belief in the vastity and versatility of his talent didn't hit too far off the mark.

“As you wish,” Maglor said and gestured for Ivárë to follow him as he started to cross the courtyard diagonally, away from walled garden.

“You don't live in the big tower?” Ivárë said, looking to his left. 

“That's where the ladies live. I owe my survival to them, and it seemed only appropriate to leave the best accommodation to them, along with the rule of the castle,” Maglor explained. “My wife and my law-sisters are lovers, too.”

“So where are your quarters?”

Maglor's right hand pointed upwards, at a steep conical roof rising high behind the feast hall, in the opposite direction from where Ivárë had been looking. “In the circular tower you see peeking from the north-west corner there.”

Ivárë tilted his head back and had to shield his eyes against the violent glint at the the very top of the roof. 

The ground floor of Maglor's tower housed a finely furnished parlour that was visited often and by many people, judging by how worn the carpet was. Maglor and Ivárë didn't stop there, nor in the dining hall on the first floor, but Ivárë's attention was captured by the large number of instruments in the music room on the second floor, and he leant into the open door from the turnpike stair to sweep his gaze over the motley collection. 

Maglor's bedchamber occupied the whole third floor. A large bed stood to the left of the door, and three deep-set windows opened in the walls at regular intervals. Curiously enough, each window had glass of mixed colours which didn't form any recognisable design. They were completely different from the plain windows in the other rooms, and didn't look like they were the work of a glass-maker, either. Ivárë's gaze lingered on the bizarre panes, and Maglor gazed at him in turn, studying his reaction. Ivárë made no remark, but his eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared as if he were trying to detect a precise scent in the room. 

A large canopied bed stood between two of the windows, and to its left was a settee doubling as kist, both made of the same dark oak used to panel the walls. Ivárë walked up to it, his footsteps muffled by mats of hand-woven reeds. He unslung his bag and dropped it on the seat together with his staff. As he took off his travelling cloak, he noticed two swords – the one short and slim, the other long and large – which rested against the side of the kist, and followed their sparkling, polished blade to where they had carven a tiny furrow in the stone of the floor.

Seemingly satisfied with his inspection, he beckoned Maglor close and had him face away from him. 

“You will let me hear your voice, now,” he said, the erstwhile lightness in his tone replaced by a subtle huskiness.

Maglor unconsciously held his breath as Ivárë unwound the heavy sash wrapped around his waist. He tracked the rustling of the fabric with his ears, half-guessing Ivárë's intentions. Ivárë was the only person not of his blood who commanded Maglor's heartfelt reverence and obedience, owing to the admiration, gratitude and affection Maglor felt for him as the one who had given him the means to develop the talent he was most proud of.

The sash was warm when Ivárë wrapped it around the upper part of Maglor's face, completely absconding his eyes. He crossed the two ends behind his head, capturing his hair, covered his ears, crossed the ends again over his eyes and tied them on his nape. 

“Lie down,” he instructed next, gently propelling Maglor forward.

Maglor regained his bearing easily enough, groped his way to the head of the bed, and lay down as Ivárë wished, still wearing his muddied boots. The sound of Ivárë's crunching footsteps as he walked around the bed was muffled when it reached his ears, but he was keenly aware of the mattress dipping to his left, and of Ivárë scooting closer and closer to him.

The next few moments were filled only by the sound of breathing – his own and Ivárë's, both muted but alluring, like indistinct voices reaching out to him from across a dream. Then Ivárë touched him, and bid him to start the vocalisations he had taught him centuries before at the onset of their relationship. Maglor cleared his throat and did as told, the sounds pouring forth from his lips almost of their own accord. 

Ivárë started working his way through Maglor's clothing to bare his chest and cock, humming his approval as if Maglor had still been a young elf learning the very basics of how to use his voice to the best of its potential. His fingers, long and deft, were unusually cold for an elf when they landed on Maglor's skin. The thrill of being so delicately touched was heightened by the fact that his eyesight was momentarily lost to pitch-black darkness, but Maglor was not allowed to falter, to give in to his quickly flaring arousal. He had to remain concentrated. He continued to sing the meaningless syllables in an ever-repeating sequence, even as it became progressively harder to do so.

His shirt was pulled open, his pants loosened. Ivárë tweaked his nipples, slid his hands downwards, fluttery like a whisper, ghosting over the many scars carven into his skin. He traced each one, and when he was satisfied, he lowered his left hand towards his cock, and grasped it firmly. 

“Now sing.” 

Maglor chose a song at random, the first to pop into his mind. The words resounded in his chest, as his blood thudded madly in his veins while Ivárë started stroking his cock. The up and down movement of his hand was slow and regular, obeying to the tempo of an unheard music, different from the melody Maglor was singing. The pressure too he applied to his shaft was always the same, tantalising more than providing any actual stimulation. 

After a long, languid sequence of songs, Ivárë started singing with him, and the movement of his fingers on his cock changed accordingly. His voice was crystal-clear, but had almost something material to it, something that Maglor had learnt to recognise during similar sessions when deprived of sight. It seeped into Maglor's skin with Ivárë's touch, and seemed to pour into Maglor's obstructed eyes like gentle rain. That, combined with the caress to his cock, brought him close his limit. Sweat broke on his forehead, and he struggled to get his voice out. But Ivárë had never pushed him too far. 

“Come,” he said. 

Maglor instantly stopped singing. He inhaled and finally allowed his voice to break into simple moans. Ivárë stroked him more vigorously until his cock twitched and his seed spurted from it, keeping his hand on the base to guide him through his orgasm. 

“I taught you well, and you did not let any of my teachings go to waste,” he said, while the last drops spilled from Maglor's cock, raw emotion coursing through his voice. He let go of the organ, and with the same hand, now slightly warmed, traced Maglor's thin lips. He let his fingers flutter over his nose and brushed them over his covered ears before nudging Maglor to raise his head so that he could remove the blindfold. 

Once they were eye to eye again, he went on. “And now you have supped on death, usurping many lives to regain your treasure. Not a desirable condition, to be sure. Murmurs of blood and dark now course through your voice, but its essence is the same, and I intend to explore its new potential to the fullest. If your voice had changed, if it had turned to something I could not find resonance with, there would have been little for me to do. I'm sure –...I'm sure there are more things, different things I can coax out of it now. Perhaps not beautiful things, but we will deal with that together.”

Maglor made to stand up, but Ivárë held him down. The pressure of his hand was heavy, fingers curling to sink his nails into his chest. Ivárë's eyes shone with an unbridled lust – curiosity, desire for novelty, almost greed. That propensity for excess was at the root of Ivárë's talent. For the first time in centuries, for the first time after all the links to his old life had been severed, Maglor felt a sense of homeliness. 

“I see my father and brothers, often,” he said in one breath. Ivárë looked just a little surprised, but eagerly nodded to him to continue, his expression still one of avid interest, almost rapture. 

“It's not just visions...I hear their footsteps, and the instruments downstairs play on their own when the castle is asleep. Not casual melodies, songs I wrote for them or together with them, and after the music stops, their image appears before me, they smile then they break up into a myriad butterflies, fly into the windows and add their colour to the glass, whose pattern and tint changes constantly.”

Ivárë twisted on the bed to take a second look at the window behind him now that he knew the reason of the oddity he had perceived in them. “A most curious phenomenon. Very interesting, indeed.” 

“Sometimes I go out into the fields, on nights when the moon doesn't shine and it feels like I'm back to the time when it hadn't risen yet, and they follow me. Their presence is the same as when they were alive, and they join me in song.”

“Your singing would obviously be a joy to them,” Ivárë remarked. “Like your instruments are. Your instruments have a soul, a soul that is tied to your own. That's why I instructed you to never buy them from nameless makers, skilled as they might be, but to make them yourself, or have them made by those you love. From the little I've been told,” Ivárë added with a note of pique that had never entirely been lulled to rest, “your father didn't sing the Silmarils into being, but words did play a part in the process, so the Silmaril you have with you might play a role in that too, don't you think?”

Maglor nodded with a small smile. Of course Ivárë would be able to tell that what glinted at the top of his tower wasn't a simple lamp. “But what of Mandos?”

“Námo does prevent fëar from acquiring a hröa, but his vigilance can be eluded, and that all the more easily as his power dwindles.” Ivárë spoke airily, condescendingly, as if he had had direct, extensive experience of what he described and relating it was a tiresome task. He idly started buttoning Maglor's clothing up again. “The Valar appear in public less often, already. The First Age consumed them too.”

“How long will you stay?” Maglor asked, pondering his words. 

“So long as it will take me to accomplish something. And have my fill of you again. I'd like to meet your wife, too. I hope she won't have anything to say against me sharing your quarters.”

“Hithfaer won't mind.”

“Good.” Ivárë finished buttoning his collar and patted it gently. “Who knows, in time I might even...talk to your father again, _face to face_.”

“Face to face? That would be quite a sight, indeed.”

“Well, will you show me your instruments now? The sooner we begin, the better.”

**Author's Note:**

> The story is set in the same verse as [Fortune](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5686417). Ñillerámë is my OC friend of Fëanor, whereas Rómelindë is my OC handmaiden+lover of Míriel.
> 
> I've often wondered who exactly taught Maglor in Valinor, so one day I just decided that Ivárë was a Vanya and made the trip to Valinor, where he became Maglor's teacher, while still being a somewhat shady character nobody knew much about. 
> 
> The castle is based off Edzell castle, which is in Scotland and is built out of red stone. Scottish castles usually come with ghosts so...
> 
> The title instead is taken from the song Teardrop by Massive Attack.


End file.
